


Self control is bloody hard

by asterCrash



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Blood As Lube, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Bondage, F/M, Impulse Control, Loss of Control, Moirails With Pails, St. Andrew's Cross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 22:43:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4937896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterCrash/pseuds/asterCrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feeding time for a rainbow drinker has a habit of getting more intimate than necessary. Kanaya asks her moirail for help working on her self-control at feeding time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self control is bloody hard

The room is dark, she is not. Bathed in her own ghostly glow the rainbow drinker stalks across the room towards her prey. He’s bound, by rope if not his own determination to see this through, and spread out across a ghastly metallic cross, found in the depths of the meteor for seemingly no other purpose than that which is serves right now. The binding and exsanguination of those foolish enough to fall prey to a creature which delights in the blood of others. The air stirs from seemingly nothing, and caresses his bared torso, painting invisible threads and invoking shivers with its graze. The chills that run up and down his spine, however, have nothing to do with the air. The rainbow drinker stalks closer, and as she approaches he can only imagine that her impatient fangs shine with their own light, seeking him out in the darkness. He cannot feel safe.

She checks their safeword once more once her approach is complete, categorically ensuring that he is as comfortable as the situation allows and ready to proceed. A pale kiss on the cheek is the last out of character interaction they’ll share before she’s sated with good fortune. Turning from what has now become her prey, she addresses the table positioned to the side of the Troll St Andrew’s cross, viewing each of the selection of tools in turn before alighting on one that strikes her fancy. She holds the blade up for inspection, the wicked curve of the knife offering something of a titillation and its edge sharpened as any master craftsman would prefer. Hardly wanting to trust her eyesight she lets the blade glide over a fingertip, feels the flesh part like water under its stroke. She turns back to her captive audience, keen to demonstrate the efficacy of the tool for him, keen that he should see the droplet of jade welling in lines of her fingerprint. Properly displayed, she brings the morsel to her tongue, not desiring to waste a single drop. She tastes herself, metallic and oakey, like the smell of home and her garden. A familiar taste, unfortunately somewhat unsatisfying. Lifting the finger free she sees one of her many new talents in action as the flesh knits itself back together under the guide of her coagulating saliva. Not, as her prisoner might describe it, “healing spit”.

His shivers continue unabated as she brings herself closer, well and truly within his personal space and with no apparent intention of departing any time soon.

“This is an exercise in control,” she repeats to herself, and to Karkat. “I will cut you no more than five times. I will count the cuts, you will confirm the count before the next cut is made. When the cuts have been allowed to bleed, I will clean them and then you will be released.” Clinical though the terminology may be “clean” is the best possible phrasing short of more suggestive terms such as “lap”, “taste”, “lick”, or “drink”. The objective is simple, feed without indulging in some of the more unsavoury desires that come along with her newly illuminated existence. Even now she can feel her loins stirring in excitement, that warm blood of his oh-so-close to his skin, drawing heat and more than one kind of hunger from her body. She wants him inside of her in a few different ways, which is patently ridiculous and exactly the reason for this training. It’s pretty obvious that he’s fighting the same fight as her, the strength of their moirallegiance unfortunately no match for the biological impetus of a rainbow drinker’s pheromones. There is at least half a literary genre dedicated to the musky overpowering scent that Kanaya can’t help by carry with her into the feeding.

“One.”

Her knife reaches across his skin, sliding as the flesh parts under the cool metal. Red wells up in a line as she removes the blade and holds it behind her, unwilling to risk a second cut so soon. The line begins to drip downwards, individual droplets bunching up and streaking towards the floor. She ignores the powerful hunger (a few hungers actually) and meets his eyes.

“One.” He agrees.

“Two.” She continues.

This time the knife takes him along the side of his thorax, an upwards curving arc newly dripping with red. More flows from this cut, but it was no deeper than the one before. Kanaya gulps as the smell of it takes her, rich hemochrome oxidizing tantalising so very close to her. She could just reach down and—

“Two.” She snaps back to reality with his confirmation. That was a close one, she needs to focus, keep her mind on the task at hand.  
“Three.” Terse, but in control, the count continues.

He gasps as the knife runs down along the centre of his breastbone, shallow and dry though the cut is in comparison to its two flowing brothers. His breath comes hard and hot down onto her face, unable to tear his eyes away from her glowing skin as he swallows through the pain. His pants are visibly tented with the wriggling of his unsheathed bulge. The smell of it adds to the powerful aromas in the air already, Kanaya feels herself begin to unsheathe as well, hardly able to deny to herself how aroused this is making her.

“Three.” He mumbles the word, breathing still hard and unfocused, hitching occasionally as he struggles slightly against his bonds.

She cleans the blade with her tongue while he tries to compose himself, strictly speaking not a breach of their rules, but definitely bending them. She makes sure that he can see her as she licks the metal dry of his fluids, she watches the involuntary surge his member makes against the material of his trousers. She doesn’t think about him that way, not usually. But right now thinking is hardly on the menu.

“I said three, dammit!” Impatience gives away more than it should, gives away how close they are to failing this little training exercise of theirs. Kanaya reaches down to unzip his pants and slide them down his hips, taking his underwear with them and freeing his bulge into the open air of the room. She’s careful to avoid it as it swats through the air, seeking her wrist to coil around. Quick as a hissbeast she reaches up and pins his flailing trollhood down against his nook, where it won’t get in the way of her work.

“Four.” The knife trails across his pubic mound, the shallowest cut yet but with the most reward, as beautiful rich red goes streaming down around his bulge as his already dripping nook. The fingers of her free hand run along the opening of his nook, mixing his blood with the genetic material steadily running down his thigh. She doesn’t give him much warning as she enters him with a finger, but he doesn’t need it. She glides in unobstructed and it’s not long before a second finger follows, the two of them stroking asynchronously at the underside of his bulge from the inside. The running motion of her fingers coaxes his hips upwards, but with his feet strapped firmly in below there’s only so far for him to lift. The restraints on his arms similarly prevent him from moving any closer towards her as he ruts up and down on her hand in short sharp motions. Kanaya abandons the knife back to its table in favour of freeing her second hand. She gathers up the blood from the wound on his side and from there it’s now running over his crotch. Her hand sticky and oh so warm she slicks his length with his own vitality, pumping up and down along the wriggling trollflesh.

He’s swearing, above her, but he hasn’t yet answered her count and so she may not proceed. And, well, if she’s stuck waiting on him she might as well entertain herself with the materials available. She cannot drink him yet, oh no, not until the five cuts are done and confirmed. But there’s nothing in the rules explicitly against jacking him off in his own blood. She might need to add a rule against that for next time, but for now she’s good.

He writhes in her tight grip and clenches down on her pumping fingers, need radiating through his actions and striking her in her own centre. She feels herself pressing against the fabric of her skirt from the inside, jade material no doubt threatening to drench good material. With a huff she abandons her manual work to remove her skirt, trying not to get the two tone mixture of red and red coating her hands on her clothing as she goes. Free of her skirt and undergarments she flings her shirt off as well, hardly wanting to waste any time. This is perhaps a broken rule of their agreement, she doesn’t remember right now, but her partner knows the safety word and has kept his mouth shut so far so it can hardly be that bad a breach of their established etiquette. The only problem then is what to do with the mess on her hands. She can’t drink it herself, but there are not rules suggesting Karkat himself cannot indulge ahead of time.

He takes her fingers in his mouth with enthusiasm, sucking the mixture of blood and slurry down like water in a desert. It’s enough of a turn-on for the messier of her hands to reach down and grip her bulge, slathering herself in his fluids and squeezing rhythmically. He continues to search every inch of her palm for more flavour, until she’s simply pressing her hand into his face to steady herself while she gets off on the combination of aromas filling her mind with cotton candy.

“F-four.” He moans into her hand and she almost wished she’d gagged him when she had her chance. His count reminds her they still very much have a job to do here, and pailing herself all over his thighs would be quite self-defeating. She has one more cut to get through. She retrieves the knife without looking away from him, and without letting go of her bulge.

“Five” She counts as a she opens up her own neck. Nothing dangerous, nothing too deep, but the blood streaks down over her glowing skin warm and slick all the same. She has to pulls his head down to her throat but once there he gets the message and sucks deeply of the wound. She tries to imagine her taste on his tongue but gives up shortly in favour of simply experiencing it herself. As she lifts up to meet his lips her bulge finds his nook and invites itself inside. He moans into her mouth as she fills him, deep and throaty like a growl. She works the folds of his insides, thrashing at every opportunity, senseless to his involuntary protests. He knows the words to maker her stop and he doesn’t use them, so she continues. She draws a hand down to the wound on his side, still bleeding his cherry red essence away in slowing droplets. She caresses the tender skin in gentle pats, calming his initially tension before she drives a claw into the parted flesh and twists.

He screams into her mouth and she pushes harder to smother his outburst with her kiss. Every muscle in his body tenses and relaxes in waves, convulsing as he desperately tries to cope with the pain. Consequently his nook feels amazing as he clenches around her, squeezing out the first spurts of her release prematurely. His bulge writhes against her bare stomach, pinned between them and rubbing itself against the cut below his midsection, red blood and slurry frothing together where they meet. He comes before she does. From her readings, Kanaya knows this is not uncommon, the intoxication of a rainbow drinker’s pheromones are often more stimulating than the sexual pleasure a drinker derives from a successful hunt. Her own release quickly follows his, thick jets of jade filling him up from beneath while he drains himself against her thorax.

“Five.” He sighs out in the aftermath. Five means she is finally free to feed.

Kanaya starts by sucking him off, the sweet mixture of blood and slurry a tantalisingly new flavour to enjoy. He whines high-pitched above her between expletives but his bulge inevitably retracts back into his sheathe, completely spent. She cleans the outside of his nook but leaves his seedflap as it is, filled with her material for him to dispose of later. Or to keep, she supposes, there will eventually be another mothergrub hungry for slurry and this is as good a combination as any.

She drags her tongue up from his sheathe to the cut on his pubic mound, repeated strokes licking up all his dripping goodness before finally cleaning the wound itself. The flesh knits back together with ease, and with a few short kisses the only mark to indicate there was ever a cut there at all is a thin white line. She turns her attention next to the wound on his side, still bleeding more heavily than the others after her earlier assault. Her mouth seals over his skin as she drinks deeply from the wound. Karkat moans at the attention, still bound and unable to force her to press into him harder. Her tongue explores the tear in his flesh, the taste of sweat on his skin mixing with the heady flavour of his blood.

Finally clean, she leaves the wound on his side to heal, instead favouring him with a long stroke of her tongue up his sternum. She doesn’t stop after she passes the apex of the angry red line, instead lifting up once more to his mouth. Hers is dry from work but is his still so lusciously moist and still tasting of her own oaky flavour. She wastes some time claiming him, knowing there’s only one last cut left to tidy up and then she’ll have to let him down from this monstrosity and face her failure like a troll. His composure is if anything more of a shambles than hers, he’s desperate to taste her lips, tries to suck her back up into the kiss with his mouth alone, and pleading when she eventually leaves him to tend to the last cut across the top of his chest. She peppers it with kisses, hardly even focussing on getting the blood inside her anymore, simply intent on making him feel cared for, loved, wanted.

She lets him down from the cross slowly, making sure he bends his arms back into place without causing himself any strain, checking all his muscles respond appropriately to a quick squeeze. He makes an effort at brushing off her fussing but it’s a token resistance she knows he didn’t mean. With the both of them still so sticky with blood and other fluids she carries him down to their pile on the far side of the room, away from the scene and away from its equipment. She holds him close and strokes his face, her hand glowing in the emptiness of the room. He relaxes into her as she whispers sweet nothings of praise and encouragement and thanks.

The room is dark, but together, they are not.


End file.
